Of a Child That Had Fever

I bid you, mock not Eros
Lest Eros mock with you.
His is a hot distemper
That hath no feverfew.

Love, like a child in sickness,
Brilliant, languid, still,
In fiery weakness lying,
Accepts, and hath no will.

See, in that warm dispassion
Less grievance than surprise,
And pitiable brightness
In his poor wondering eyes.

Oh delicate heat and madness,
Oh lust unnerved and faint:
Sparkling in veins and fibres,
Division and attaint!

I bid you, mock not Eros;
He knows not doubt or shame,
And, unaware of proverbs,
The burnt child craves the flame.
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